#AmericanWriters
‘Now that is after my own heart,’ The Poet cried; 'one understands Your swarthy hero Scanderbeg, Gauntlet on hand and boot on leg, And skilled in every warlike art,
In broad daylight, and at noon, Yesterday I saw the moon Sailing high, but faint and white, As a schoolboy’s paper kite. In broad daylight, yesterday,
A cold, uninterrupted rain, That washed each southern window-p… And made a river of the road; A sea of mist that overflowed The house, the barns, the gilded v…
Witlaf, a king of the Saxons, Ere yet his last he breathed, To the merry monks of Croyland His drinking-horn bequeathed,— That, whenever they sat at their r…
Baron Castine of St. Castine Has left his château in the Pyre… And sailed across the western seas… When he went away from his fair de… The birds were building, the woods…
An old man in a lodge within a par… The chamber walls depicted all aro… With portraitures of huntsman, haw… And the hurt deer. He listeneth t… Whose song comes with the sunshine…
A wind came up out of the sea, And said, ‘O mists, make room for… It hailed the ships, and cried, ‘… Ye mariners, the night is gone.’ And hurried landward far away,
How much of my young heart, O Spa… Went out to thee in days of yore! What dreams romantic filled my bra… And summoned back to life again The Paladins of Charlemagne,
Mr. Finney had a turnip, And it grew, and it grew, And it grew behind the barn, And the turnip did no harm. And it grew, and it grew,
In the convent of Drontheim, Alone in her chamber Knelt Astrid the Abbess, At midnight, adoring, Beseeching, entreating
I stand again on the familiar shor… And hear the waves of the distract… Piteously calling and lamenting th… And waiting restless at thy cottag… The rocks, the sea—weed on the oce…
I pace the sounding sea—beach and… How the voluminous billows roll an… Upheaving and subsiding, while the… Shines through their sheeted emera… And the ninth wave, slow gathering…
The cabin windows have grown blank As eyeballs of the dead; No more the glancing sunbeams burn On the gilt letters of the stern, But on the figure-head;
Heard a voice, that cried, “Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!” And through the misty air Passed like the mournful cry
How beautiful is the rain! After the dust and heat, In the broad and fiery street, In the narrow lane, How beautiful is the rain!